Choices that We Make
by InformalSpoofer
Summary: So, who, exactly, is to blame? Because, really, we're all monsters in the end. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Invader Zim, that pleasure belongs to Jhonen Vasquez or Nickelodeon or Viacom or all three or none of the above, just not me.

**Author's Notes: **This story isn't your usual fic – which is probably a bad thing. Read at your own risk. (May cause carpal tunnel or toe fungus.)

**Warnings: **Lots of bad things. Character death. Overdramatics. Shiz to the nizzle.

----

Choices that We Make

Fingers clenched about his throat, his mortality rushing ugly black into his face. He is an animal, but the monster holding him is baring teeth, gleams of blood and spit and sweat littering his pale skin. In a flash, inherent training from birth erupts crystal-clear, fed by the machine. He is a volcano and metal bursts out of his back.

It should have been fatal, but the monster lets go and rolls away, and his arms and a leg catch onto the sharp metal points. Blood, screams, a moment of eerie suspension before he crumples. The sick sound of suction precedes the clicks of those deadly legs returning to their resting place, and he stands over the monster.

Tears of pain. He smirks. "You never learn, do you?" Height is everything, and he accentuates this by crushing his boot on the monster's throat. "Not today, Dib-stink. Pitiful human." Despite the bloodlust that pounds through his veins, he knows there will soon be vomit and more tears, a pitiful display he would rather miss.

Mercilessly stepping across his opponent's neck, he walks away without looking back, humming a familiar tune. It is only when he turns the corner that he collapses, hard breath tearing his throat to pieces. He's bleeding from his gut where shrapnel rests, and considers calling for his robot. After a moment of critical analyzing, he concedes and takes out a communication device, hoarsely barking orders with the oh-so-pleasant sound of retching as background noise.

When he is spread-eagle and being tended to by sensitive robotic arms, his mind wanders to the monster. He supposes that he somehow dragged himself home, but something nags at the edges of his conscious, nibbling persistently. A feeling in the depths of – no. He does not feel. The arms peel away and there is nothing reminiscent of damage save for a vivid scar. It will disappear in time, erased by his ever-vigilant Pak, just as the shadows of empathy.

………………

He rolls over and groans loudly, waves of pain and nausea clashing until he empties out his stomach. Exhaustion…he is too tired to move away so he collapses instead, head tilted so he won't choke. Blackness edges around his eyes, blurred sights in front of him. Vaguely aware of a stranger screaming, he decides it is not worth staying around for what happens next.

"…stab…we can't…alone?"

"Yes."

Darkness.

There is a glove pressing his cheek when he wakes up, but he doesn't move immediately. Opening his eyes tentatively, he sees an unfamiliar face. "Good morning," an unfamiliar voice says, and then the eyes turn away. "He's awake, Professor."

"Ah! Excellent." He tries not to think of an autopsy as his father hovers over him, opaque eyes focused on his face. This illusion, however, doesn't fool him – he knows those eyes are elsewhere, roaming the room with reckless abandon. "Son, you were stabbed by a madman. Do you remember what he looked like?"

"It was Zim," he replies bluntly. His father jerks back, laughs, and waves his hand dismissively. Scowling, he rises up in the uncomfortable bed only to collapse again.

"Of course it was, Son. Well, back to REAL science for me!" Without any hesitation, he leaps out of the room, sharp laughs echoing throughout the empty halls (as painful to him as a boot on his throat).

"Well then," the nurse cheerily says, "it's time for your tests. The doctor will be right with you."

"What tests?" She turns and he looks up at her face.

"Your psychiatric tests, silly! The professor requested we did them." Empty giggle and five steps later, he is alone to mull over his wounds. A soft tapping outside his window jerks him out of his reverie and he looks up. Fury wells inside of him at the eyes that stare at him and he flips the bird. The alien laughs and he can hear it almost as clearly as if the window were open; a clawed finger points to a wall in the room and he follows it.

Get well, human!  
Love, Zim

Brilliantly shining black marker, the lines are impeccable and thick; the only message neatly printed on the large whiteboard. Carelessly ripping the IV out of his arm, he staggers across the room to the window and forces it open.

"Fuck you, space boy," he bites vehemently as the disguised alien crawls into the room. Despite the fact he is a foot and a half taller than the alien, he feels much smaller, fear that he can't fight curling in his stomach.

"What," he snidely replies, a cocky smirk displaying serrated teeth, "you don't like my present?"

"What do _you _think?" It's not a question, really, and he's glad the alien doesn't reply. "What do you want?" he asks irritably, hobbling back to his bed. "Come to kill me in my sleep? Some invader _you _are."

"Who are you talking to?" a strange voice replies. He turns on his heel, the sudden movement pushing him into a moment of vertigo that topples him onto the hospital bed. A doctor walks over and stands near him, looking down with chilled blue eyes.

"Zim," he explains breathily, sitting up. But when he looks at the window, it is shut, and the only proof that the alien had ever entered the hospital is the gleaming message on the board. Thick swallow, he recomposes and looks back up. The doctor is frowning. "He was here," he insists.

"You may think so," the doctor says, falling into a low, soft voice that he assumes is supposed to be soothing. The doctor pulls a chair up to the bed and takes a seat, lightly cradling a clipboard in a hand, pen poised. "But, if you think about it, you and I will both agree he wasn't _really_ here."

He doesn't look up at the doctor; with shaking hands he slides the IV back into his arm. Clenched fists, clenched teeth, coiled muscles like a stressed spring, he shuts his eyes and counts to ten. Resiliently his jaw refuses to open, so he doesn't respond; merely shoots lasers through the opposite wall.

"Well, then," the doctor drones, nearly whispering, "let's begin. Shall we?"

Pride taking hold of him by the throat, he stolidly stares at the message and doesn't say a single word.


	2. Chapter 2

Violence. A rush of anger as adrenaline, he tears into them like a rabid animal, screaming. Ruptures his throat, they strap him in and tighten until breathing is a joke. He tries to run and falls, and they hold him down. No one believes him. A needle driven unkindly into his arm administers a sedate, and he stops struggling. They help him to his feet and escort him down the hall in stoic silence.

By the time he's alone again, he's laughing, laughing because he knows that he is right and they are all going to die.

………………

When the scary sibling tells him where her brother is, he laughs until his entire body hurts, until tears roll down his cheeks and drop messily onto his shirt. She tells him to go home and he asks for the address, so he can pay the monster a visit. With little attention she complies and goes on her way, leaving him snickering in her wake.

It is easy, child's play nonsense, to be permitted a visit. When they are alone together, he advances on the monster and presses him against the wall. Neither says a single word, merely meet eye-to-eye, glare to grin. He wraps his arms behind the monster and easily removes his restrictions. The arms underneath are red and black, bruises and strain, and he touches them curiously. Flinching, the monster beats his hand away and tilts his face down, staring at his feet.

"This is _your _fault."

"Ah." He turns and paces the perimeter of the room, gloved hand invading the soft walls. "Yes, it's easy to pass the blame…isn't it." Sensitive antennae pick up the explosion before it happens and he turns to still it. "What I _mean _is that you should have said something." For a tense moment they battle with their eyes; the monster relaxes and looks away. He smirks. Satisfying.

"He treated me like a kid," the monster whines softly, plucking the hem of his shirt. "I'm not crazy."

"You _are _a smeet, compared to me." It's an obvious statement and earns a 'No shit, Sherlock?' sort of look. Concedes gracefully; he waves his hand, an airy dismissal. "Besides, aren't you still yet young, even by human standards?"

"Why do you care?" A cold snap that rips through the air, irrelevant, a question with more of a history behind it than either would like to admit. A less impatient battle begins, neither monster nor alien eager to continue. He seems to have lost his vigor, the purpose for coming at all. Vague memories of lines he'd constructed to beat the monster down are useless now; so timid, hardly able to see straight.

"What have they done to you?" he asks angrily. Before the monster has a chance to answer, he grits out, "You're even more pathetic than usual."

"I don't know," he groans, gripping his head. "I can't think." Drops his hands and swings his arms to rush life back into them. Redness turns to spotted white and, gradually, to the original pale color, simply littered with bold bruises. The monster inspects the useless appendages and tests his fingers, opening and shutting them.

"I see." He smirks and adjusts his wig, then a taut glove. "Excellent. I'll just go now, then." Head up, he marches the classic invader way to the door.

"Don't get too cocky. I'll be out soon." The threat is laced with uncertainty and the silent plea rides his masked antennae. No words necessary – will you help me? He laughs softly, half-hearted, and stares into the monster's eyes. Reflections of the bright light and hints of green are in the monster's glasses, so he walks over and tears them off. Casts them to the floor. Before the monster can do anything, he forces him against the wall, back into the straight jacket, and silently leaves.

Laughing, he imagines the monster helplessly blind, writhing on the floor. Maybe he would crush his own glasses. One could only hope.


	3. Chapter 3

Click.

"Patient 777, session five, start. Bring him in, please."

Door creaks open, door creaks shut. Scraping of chairs.

"Hello, Dib."

"Hi."

"How are you today?" The click of a pen, shuffling papers.

"I'm all right." Only someone who knows can hear the quaver, proof of the lie. "You?"

"Oh, I'm fantastic. Thank you for asking." More papers shuffle, a light, nearly inaudible, soft squeak. Belts unbuckling, a sigh of relief. "Much better, isn't it?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Always a gentleman." Pause, a light sip of something – probably coffee. "So, did you sleep well last night?"

A long pause, longer than any of the others. "Yes."

"Why did you lie to me?"

"What?"

"We heard you screaming. Don't you remember?"

"Yes. You used a needle. Why?"

"You were being – "

"Like hell I was being dangerous."

"Now, Dib, you don't want to go back into the straight jacket, do you?"

"…No."

"Good. Now, tell me why you started screaming. Was it a nightmare? Did you see the alien again?"

"He has a name. It's Zim."

"So you did?"

"No."

"Why were you screaming, then?"

"I…was…suffocating." A pause. "I couldn't breath," he reiterates more forcefully.

"You don't have to lie to me. Did the – did _Zim_– visit you last night?"

"I already told you, no."

"So - ?"

"It was just a dream. Could we please stop talking about this?"

"Tell me one of your dreams, Dib."

"_Please?_"

"If you're going to get better, you have to talk about it." Silence. Longer than all the rest. "Dib?" Pause. "Dib? Are you crying?"

"I'm _not _crazy." His voice is high-pitched, unnatural. "He's not some – some hallucination."

"Dib – "

"I have the scars to prove it!"

"Dib," firmer now, no more games. "Those wounds are self-inflicted."

"No, they're not."

"Your father told us he found a knife in your room."

"Yeah, to ward off _Zim!"_

"Dib. Look at your arms."

"He did that."

A deep-throated sigh. "Dib. I understand – "

"_No_, you don't understand _anything!_ You're going to _die _because you don't realize that – _God damn it, _stop it!"

"I'll see you next week. Maybe you'll be more cooperative then." Shouts of indignation, a loud door creaking open and shut. Papers shuffle. "Patient 777, session five, end."

Click.

Click.

"Patient 777, session 34, start. Go ahead and bring him in."

Door creaks open, door creaks shut. Scraping of chairs.

"Hello, Dib."

"Hi."

"Would you like to talk about Zim?"

"No."

"Did Zim come last night?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"His project is almost complete. That's why I need to get out. So can I _go_?"

"Almost. Did he let you out of your straight jacket?"

"Yes."

"Did he hurt you?"

Hesitation, a sharp intake of breath. "No."

"Well, you're getting out tomorrow, so we won't be seeing each other again." Papers shuffle, an irritable sigh. "I don't think you're ready to leave, yet, but the head warden spoke with your father."

"No more drugs?"

"No. Goodbye."

Chairs scrape back and footsteps pound solidly on concrete. Door opens, door shuts. A last sigh.

"Patient 777, session 34, end."

Click.


	4. Chapter 4

The car ride home is silent save for a soft AM radio filtering through the speakers. He stares out of the window in relief, familiar sights bringing peace to him. A gentle groan of happiness alerts the attention of his father, who looks over.

"Everything all right, son?" The car begins to veer into oncoming traffic, but neither father nor son seem to care.

"Yeah." He watches as his father corrects the car, then presses his hands against the dashboard, enjoying the feeling of free movement.

"You know," turns a corner and hits the curb, "you're lucky."

"Yeah." He shrinks against the seat to close in on himself, a personal way of shutting out the conversation he knows is coming. When five minutes pass and his father says nothing, he looks up. "That's it?"

"You know what I'm going to say." The car stops and his father unlocks the door; not cutting the engine, he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. "Take care of your sister. I'll be home later."

He does not need to be told twice. Stepping out of the car he stumbles, foot catching on the door. Before he is completely righted, his father snaps the passenger door shut and drives away. A frown, a shrug; he's aching for the hug of his trenchcoat and the warmth that doesn't suffocate him. Inside, his sister is on the couch, soft beeps and cheesy music playing from her Game Slave whatever-number-it-is; she doesn't even look up to acknowledge him. Nothing new. Routine.

Dressed to kill (quite literally), he tucks away his supplies and leaves without saying goodbye. Walks silently and tries not to smile when people cross the street to avoid him, because he knows he is the last thing they should be afraid of. Someone driving by yells out their window and he waves cheerily at them before moodily turning up the collar of his coat; a light sigh escapes his throat. He forces his hands into his pockets and watches his feet.

Familiarity is what he holds onto, or, rather, what he _is _holding onto, while he has nothing else. The green house stares at him silently and the faint whir of lawn gnomes turning to face him makes him sigh again. Sigh, sigh, sigh…the lights are off. School is in session. He has nothing better to do, so he sits down in the gnomefield right where they can't shoot him and smiles.

They give up and so does he. Walks to the school and stares at it thoughtfully, then walks in. He waits patiently, leaning against the wall in the entrance hall, for the bell to ring.

It doesn't take long.

"Stink-beast! What are _you _doing here?"

He turns around and grins at Zim. "I got out. Nice wig." It's new, something pointier (which makes him laugh) and longer, less like Elvis but not too different.

"Yesss," he drawls, patting it fondly. "Magnificent, isn – WAIT! Ha! Stupid little earth-monkey, was that supposed to be a _distraction? _I know what you're up to."

"Oh, yeah?" he grabs the alien's (pink – very pink) collar and holds him still. So short. "Maybe…oh, forget it." He turns on his heel and hits the floor because the alien trips him. Eruption of laughter, a few whispered remarks, and moments later the alien is the only other one in the hall. He kneels down and digs hard fingers into his shoulder.

"Forget it? Maybe _you _should." Suspension of breath and time and he thinks of the warm jacket and cold room, laughter fogging his glasses. He shudders.

"Fuck you, Zim."

And he is alone.


	5. Chapter 5

"What are you up to?" she asks, standing in his room.

"I'm tired." Speaks into ancient pillow, he knows it's all shed skin and hair and tears and spit, but isn't disgusted because he's always been clean and if he can't be intimate with anyone else, he can stand to be so close to the part of himself that left years ago without any volition. She stands over him and he turns to face her, eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

"Dad wants you." Away she goes, light smoke rising in her wake.

No questions. Up to his feet, down the stairs, a tightness building until it's difficult to breathe; he's older than he cares to think but he feels like a kindergartener summoned to the principal's office. Down to the labs, he stands behind his father and waits. Waiting, waiting…several minutes pass before his father stops working and turns to look at him. There is something wrong.

"You've been given medication." Less of a statement, it is a ghost, fluttering past his guarded lips. "It's on the table."

This can't be all, he thinks, frowning and running a hand through his hair. It catches on the scythe lock and he toys with it, considering his words, before he speaks. "Is that all?"

His father turns back and lightly lifts his creation, a half-finished robot, probably a future slave to assist him in finer work. Several more minutes die between his hands, and he says what should have been said years ago. "It was my fault."

Hesitation. Whether or not he should speak is a decision he's not willing to make, but he's overexcited and blurts out, "What?" This is the first time his father has ever taken the blame.

Turns on a heel, puts a hand on his shoulder; he flinches and tries not to remember the last time his father touched him, then realizes he can't think of another time. "Stop speaking nonsense, son!" The moment has left. Killed by impulse. "Now, go run along. Take two every day! It's the scientific way!" And again he takes the backseat to an invention as his father goes back to work, saying without words that he should go.

It's a small bottle but full of pills. They make a nice noise when he moves, a jittery clash of medicine, a reminder of the fact that there is background noise and it's what makes up everything, if he would just pay attention. He doesn't look at the label before swallowing the pills, and he shoves the bottle into his pocket; looking for a fight, he leaves.

The alien meets him halfway and they stare, surprised, before the fight begins. Verbal pars as they stalk to an abandoned building, threats that are half-empty. Too much steam to blow off; they hate each other and need this, motivation the key to survival. Inside the building it starts, _really _starts, primitive wrestling and hitting and biting, cheap blows left and right that elicit offended shouts.

No rest. Just sweat and bruises and hissed threats, grapple holds that break just moments before it's too late. He is in pain, so tired, and blood is trickling over his eye, but he's grinning, determined to make the alien crack. It takes grabbing his antennae, and the break is hard and fast, the alien screaming. "Stop! Stop it! Mercy!" He lets go and apologizes.

It's over. They sit together, collecting breath and dignity, looking each other over for any major wounds. The alien applies a bit of disinfectant over his forehead, grunting that humans bleed too easily. Then there is silence where they stare at the broken ceiling and lose themselves in thoughts unshared. Understanding it is something he has never tried, something he suspects would end in a mass of confusion and this thing that he is so sure of is the last thing he would like to be confused about. For seven years it's been this way, a little different around the edges, seven long years that for all the blood and sweat and tears he would never take back.

It is what he lives for. Life as unnatural as the alien beside him. Perhaps it's a wreck but he doesn't care. (More than he thinks he does, but he'll survive.) More than he asked for, more than he'll ever ask for again, and in that moment he sighs and, for the first time in three years, he breaks that tired silence.

'Why did you visit me?" The question hangs in the air and the alien perks his antennae curiously. Silence. Thought. Patience. He begins to suspect he should never have spoken for the second time that day and cringes slightly.

"Why do you think?" the alien says, a little impatient, as if he's speaking to a rowdy child. He shrugs and sits up, eyes on the alien. Opens his mouth to speak; cuts himself off and stands up. There is no easy way to voice it so he says nothing at all.

"D'you have a good plan?" he asks, changing the subject clumsily.

"Yes," a low hiss, satisfied. "It will be most amazing. My tallest have praised me thoroughly already. You just wait."

He laughs and runs a hand through his hair, an agitating habit he's been picking up from somewhere. Drops his hands and sighs. "Bye." Turning he walks away, refusing to look back even when the alien demands he return so he can gloat more.


	6. Chapter 6

Eyes watching, narrowed eyes, angry eyes. He knows it but he does not acknowledge it, merely pretends to eat while trying to keep the food as far away as possible. Garbage, not food. Boots, heavy, beat the tile, a beeline for him, and he busies himself with rubbing his eyes so he doesn't have to look up. The boots stop and the monster slams his hands on the table; he and the next table over jumps and look at the monster, scandalized.

"You," he grits out, amber eyes slits, "could have _killed _me." He takes a moment to survey the monster, and there _is _a long burn across his neck, curving up to his ear.

"That's a problem?" he snaps, no sympathy flickering in his squeedly-spooch. Refusing to wait for a reply, he stands, empties his tray on the monster and leaves to a chorus of laughter. There is no violence – only eyes on the back of his head. He imagines there is something deeper than upset, but it's been a long day.

Long…such a miserable week. Hesitation, he slides into a bathroom and leans against a stall. It was a neat trick, laying the box on the monster's windowsill – the pressure released when opening it, which he knew the monster would. Acid. A native chemical to Vort, something potent and hard to clean; he draws the picture of the monster's neck from the fresh memory and smiles. He probably _would _have died, if his father wasn't so used to such incidents, he muses, and then laughs.

………………

The moon is high. Smiling from its perch, it is waning and this makes him angry, because another dead moon means another month on the pathetic dirt-ball excuse for a planet. He grits his teeth and steps out, eyes level and head high. Never, _never_, would he lose faith in his race, but lately he's been losing faith in himself, in the integrity of the mission.

Perhaps, he finds himself thinking, he wishes the monster _had_ died. When he realizes this means there is a reluctance to let him die, he laughs, high-pitched and a little frantic, and orders his Pak to eradicate the thought. Soon he is left musing over the moon again, eyes tracing the craters meticulously.

The next morning, the monster is not in class. But the monster is _never _not in class. At lunch he looks for the sister, but she's nowhere to be found either. Suspicion tightens his squeedly-spooch, but he makes it slide, telling himself to enjoy the absence of bickering and insults that are emptier than the monster's desk.

Day falls into night and again into day. Announcements over the school intercom start, typical nonsense that bores him to tears. Just as he's found a comfortable slumped position, he hears something that jolts him back into reality.

"In other news," boredboredbored, "Dib Membrane has been committed to the local hospital and is in critical condition." Pause. A low sigh. "There's a get-well poster in the senior commons. Feel free to sign. Now, for the pledge…"

Whispers and laughter interrupt the earth nation's flag salute, rumors like wildfire – suicide, drugs, his father blowing up the house. He hears one person mutter, "About time," and wheels around, eyes turned to slits in fury.

"Tell me," he grinds out, clenching shaking fists, "is it _common _for you _stink-beasts _to have so little empathy for your own kind, even when said kind has done you _no _wrong?"

"Yeah, yeah," he replies boredly, staring as if he'd said the stupidest thing ever. "We all know you two are queer."

"This has nothing to do with deer! You should at _least _recognize his superiority over you and – " Eraser thunks his head – he squeals and ducks under his desk. "You _dare _strike the almighty ZIM?!" Waves his fist to more laughter until the teacher finally does his job and tells the class to shut the fuck up before he has to pull out the tazer again.

Not an empty threat.

At the end of lunch, he ventures timidly to the communal get-well. It is littered with messages and names, but overriding the entire upper-half is a spray-painted word that he does not recognize. Stares at it several minutes, but it's useless without his Pak to translate it. A passing girl is victim to his clawed hands and she begins to shout in surprise until he points.

"Earth-monkey, what does that mean?"

She looks up at the message and her face pulls into a disgusted expression. "It means…well," she searches for a sensitive way to put it. "It's an insult. Means he's gay."

He gives his Pak a moment to translate. "Gay? As in…happy?"

Discomforted by the situation, she adjusts her backpack and sighs, looking down the hallway away from him. "No, as in he likes guys."

"The male of your species?"

"Yeah. Um, I should – " she mumbles; points vaguely away.

"And that is a bad thing? Like…a defect?"

"Okay bye!" Practically running from the situation, she's almost home free, but he belts out one last question.

"How do you say it?"

Frantic to escape, she has no inhibitions of shouting back, "Fag!" before disappearing.

He stands and stares at the word, chin in hand. "Fag," he repeats softly, considering the taste in his mouth as he does. The bell for lunch's end rings, and he leaves, the stark black spray paint bright in his mind.

With double the letters, that is.

DEFECT.


	7. Chapter 7

She sits in the waiting room and itches to play a game, to bury reality in familiar pixels, but her father took it hours ago and has broken it. Taking a moment to look at him she does; his head is low and hands clasped between his knees. A shock runs through her as she realizes he is sleeping. Sleep…she reaches a hand out to touch the familiar coat then pulls away, almost afraid to break his peace. It has been a long night for him. For her.

The only one who can make her feel. Love, fear, concern…the man beside her. And he doesn't even know it. Clueless and blind, an island in the middle of a rushing river that refuses to erode. She likes that metaphor and constructs a picture of it in her mind. Reflexive, she leans against him but he does not move; has it been months? Years? Buried in her father's arm, she smiles, and no one will ever know.

Hours later, she reads from an airbrushed magazine and considers the silver bracelets; lately she's been so fond of the sound silver makes. She tears out a page and neatly folds it, creasing painstakingly for something to do. That's when she hears it.

"I _demand_ you filthy _humans _take me to the Dib!"

Never thought she'd be happy to hear _that._ But she is. Fixing her eyes on the green body she stands and stalks to him. "Shut up before I'm forced to _doom _you." Her father is still sleeping, or else she wouldn't have said a thing; simply seize his neck to hush him.

He looks around, fear lighting his eyes that she drinks in before it is gone. Less power over him, lately. What a shame. "Gazling. Where is the Dib-stink?" With a swift movement he reaches out to grab her collar, then remembers who she is and backs a step away.

"He's still in the ICU." Losing interest in the immediate conversation she returns to her father, who straightens up.

"Daughter?"

"Zim's here." She sits and opens the magazine, but doesn't look at the pictures.

"He's – " In the absence of her father's reply, the idiot opens and closes his mouth precisely like a fish. "He's _what?_ That doesn't make any sense." Directly in front of her, he splays a hand across the magazine; she grits her teeth and incinerates the magazine with her indignation.

"Intensive care unit," she bites out." Her father's eyes are on the idiot, dazed. She wonders if he had any dreams, but doesn't dare address it.

"Eh?" His dangling tongue is quite unattractive, eyes glazed with sheer stupidity.

"Dib. Is. In. Intensive. Care. Unit." Hand around his throat, she squeezes, fingers unrelenting to his frantic claws. "Get it?"

"Daughter," cold, authoritative, "you know you shouldn't choke your brother's friend." He leaps to his feet. "I…need…" she braces herself for the scream, "COFFEE!" He is gone.

She lets go and wipes her hand on her dress. "Here to get him while he's down?" a hiss that's pure venom, she cracks open an eye and stares down the idiot.

"You _lie!_ I came to laugh at him in his sleep, stupid little worm." As if it's the most obvious thing in the world. She sighs and picks up another magazine. He sits next to her and huffily folds his arms across his tiny chest. Amazing how someone could be taller than her and seem so small.

There is nothing to say, and they say nothing. Perhaps that is the only thing they have in common.

………………

At first he has to wait outside the room because he is not family. His sensitive antennae pick up the mumbling but not the words. A long silence, the tension thick and almost painful, even through the gray door and white walls. The door slams open and the scientist barges out, shouting about having so much work to do. She comes out a moment later, looks at him, and shakes her head. Without a word she walks down the hallway, leaving him and a frazzled nurse.

"Would you like to see him?" she asks, dark brown eyes lighting on him.

Keeping true to the trend he walks in without a word. Eyes on the monster. The monster looks back, brow furrowed in confusion. "What…?" the monster quietly asks a useless question. The nurse turns to the monster and smiles at him.

"Do you remember him?"

"Yes." Stares at him, so confused. He opens and shuts his mouth, then looks back at her. "What's his name?"

He doesn't wait to be asked; simply turns and walks away. There is a sickness inside of him he can't fight, something pulling at him, amnestic memories diluted like they've been printed in silt that won't stand still. Against a wall he clutches his head and tries to remember, dog-fighting his Pak until it wins out, like it always does, and he's left trying to remember why he's in this strange building at all.

So he leaves. But there is something that is making him smile.


	8. Chapter 8

Brain aching, he has to keep trying, but he doesn't _want _to, he just wants to be left alone; why shouldn't he be? His father and his sister never visit and the alien (he wishes he could remember his name) only came once. If they don't come, he doesn't see why the nurses and doctors come, trying to get him to do…something. A sigh, he sets down the notebook and huffily folds his arms across his chest.

"Is it done?" the nurse asks eagerly.

"I don't wanna do it." He pouts and hopes she'll leave it at that.

What he forgets is that she _never _leaves it at that. "You _have _to, Dib." Stern, she puts the notebook and pen back in his hands.

"I don't want to," he persists, setting the notebook aside. Glares at her in a challenge; he's tired of this room, of his bed, of her, of the doctors, of the clocks and mazes.

"I _know _you don't, Dib. But you have to." Pressing the puzzle back into his lap, she gives him a Look, one that he recognizes.

Biting his lip against tears of frustration, he looks back at the paper and tries to make sense out of it. Instead the page becomes a mass of confusion, and he can't even remember what he's supposed to do. "I – "

There is a timid knock on the door and the nurse jumps, eyes trained on it. Her eyes widen, hopeful, and she leaves his side to answer. Unable to see who is on the other side he strains, leaning out of the bed; finally she moves and smiles at him.

"You have a visitor, Dib."

In marches the alien, narrowed eyes tight on his. Before he has a chance to greet the familiar face, he snaps, "Dib-human, this ploy to weaken my defenses is _useless! _I can see through your _game._" Holds his collar, he has to be pried off by the shocked nurse. He swipes at her hands and stands his ground, eyes burning.

"Hi," he says uncertainly. 'What's your name?"

"Do not mock me," the alien hisses, clenched fists tight at his sides. About to advance on him again, the nurse pulls him out of the room, leaving him alone and disgruntled.

They didn't come back.

………………

"Has he shown any sign of improvement?" Talking as if he's not even in the room. He stares at the fraying blanket and pulls a loose string, pretending he's not there, that words can't hurt him and that his father isn't his idol.

The doctor hesitates. "None yet," he admits gently, "but he knows the doctors and nurses by name, so – "

"How long has it been, doctor?" he snaps. Before the doctor can answer, he answers himself. "Six months."

"How many times have you come to visit?" Narrowed eyes behind masks meet.

"I'm a very busy man."

"Your son – "

"Dib," the voice he's pretending not to hear is very close, and he looks up, surprised. Surprised that it should jolt him to hear his name pass through such lips, that this father of his is so close, almost intimate, the way sons and fathers should be. "Do you want to stay here?"

Hope rises like fire in his heart and he doesn't bother to still it. "No."

Though he can't see it, he feels the smile, and he smiles in return, ready for those words – come home. Come. Home. _Come home! _"Very well, then." Hands clasped behind his back, his father turns and straightens, oozing satisfaction. "Put him in the institution."

Heart stops. Can't move or think, even to help the doctor protest. In the end, his father gets his way, and he is fitted to a jacket and left alone to his blurry thoughts.

He knows nothing.


	9. Chapter 9

He hears people screaming but they don't hear him. They _never _hear him. Nevereverever.

Settling against the wall he draws his knees to his chest and stops thinking. Not that he thinks anything lately; he just sits. Will sit for days and fall into comatose mindsets because they're much more pleasant than memories or wishes.

A noise. Door opens. He knows what that means; he curls in more tightly and focuses just to the right of the shadows of boots; bites his lip. Tries to say something, but his throat is too dry and all he does is croak.

"How long has it been?" For the first time in six years he meets someone's eyes. "Three years?" Familiar, all alarms going off.

It takes more tries than he'd like to count to speak. "Why?" More of a breath than a word. He is paralyzed, eyes on the alien.

"I destroyed Earth. You'll be the last." Keeping a distance, distaste in those eyes, distaste and pity that confuses him, because he knows the alien doesn't feel that for anyone.

"What?" It's getting easier to talk, but he's feeling tight, not quite able to breathe, and he's trembling. The alien kneels down and leans in, eyes bright. He recoils, but only hits a wall. A corner. It just now occurs to him that the alien is a threat, that something bad is happening.

Cold steel on his temple accompanied by warm hand on his cheek, he is forced to look at the alien's face, in the alien's eyes, dancing.

He begins to cry.

A soft whir, and something inside of him clicks, the flashes of memories stronger. He doesn't cry out of fear, but out of the recognizable loneliness, in the face of this truth – the only one who can even stand his presence s this alien, this unfamiliar thing who won't even tell him his name.

Leans into the gun, into the hand, he gives himself up.

A whispered confession, "It wasn't supposed to happen like this…"


	10. Chapter 10

"…but beggars can't be choosers." He pulls the trigger. Blood on his hands. Fire in his eyes.

Up to his feet, he abandons the human. That was all he ever was - a human. Full of passion and faults, a weak mind and weaker surroundings. Born and lived and killed…first his mind through pathetic human pills, then his shell by a cheap shot.

Covers his face and slumps against a wall, he does not know what's happening. Sounds of the armada overhead. It will start soon.

Wiping the blood off, he sits and broods. Realizes it is time to leave the planet.

He will never admit that he is a monster.

fin.


End file.
